Page 16 of Sawyer
“I mean it.” I lift my chin. “He wants me to walk away. I’m not giving him the wall.”
We stare each other down. He’s measuring the risk, and I’m measuring my backbone. Finally he nods once—sharp, proud, furious. “Then we lock it tighter and finish fast.”
“Deal.”
He keys his mic. “Riggs, tighten outer ring. We finish in fifteen.”
“Roger. And, Cam?” Riggs’ voice crackles through. “Whoever that was picked the wrong princess.”
Despite everything, I smile. It’s shaky, but it’s there.
We finish the top coat with parents flanking the kid zone like human bollards while Sawyer and Riggs patrol wider arcs. I give my interview: “Art turns neglected spaces into community. These kids deserve to see their colors towering over traffic.” I don’t mention masked cowards. Idogrip Sawyer’s wrist off camera when the shakes threaten.
When the last brush is washed and the final group selfie snapped, we pack in a blur. Sawyer herds me to the van like he’s escorting state secrets. Inside, I cradle my throbbing elbow and stare out at the mural—our mural—now blazing against twilight.
“You okay?” he asks quietly once the doors close.
“I will be,” I say. “You?”
His jaw flexes. “I’m better when I can see the threat.”
“Same,” I whisper. “Guess we keep painting.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh, might be a growl. “Yeah, Cam. We keep painting. And we catch him.”
Outside, Riggs double-taps the van panel—clear to roll. As we pull away, I look back at the wall and make myself a promise: whoever thinks color can’t stand up to blood is about to learn what happens when you mix the two in equal parts stubborn and steel.
And if I have Sawyer Maddox at my side—no,if he has me at his—I like our odds.
7
Sawyer
When we arrive back to her place I keep Cam in my sightline all the way from the curb to the foyer. She walks steady—too steady—the kind of brittle composure you get when shock hasn’t decided whether to crash you or crown you. I don’t press. Not in front of staff. Not where cameras can memorialize tremors she doesn’t want trending.
Edgar meets us at the door with a damp cloth and a look that belongs on a battlefield medic. “Everything all right, Miss Cam?”
“We finished the mural,” she says, which is both true and not remotely the point. I give Edgar a tight shake of the head:no details yet. He pivots to logistics—tea, ice, dinner—and the routine becomes a ramp we can drive our frayed nerves up without flipping.
While Cam disappears to scrub paint (and evidence powder I dusted along her sleeve) off in the downstairs bath, I step into the side courtyard and dial Dean.
He picks up before the first full ring. “Report.”
“Level just moved from nuisance to credible threat with proximity breach,” I say. “Contact at rec center women’s restroom. Male, approx six foot, athletic build, masked. Grabbed Cam’s elbow long enough to pass a written message—same cream cardstock, ransom-block lettering. Line read:COLOR CAN’T COVER BLOOD. STOP PAINTING TARGETS. NEXT TIME I USE RED.Tone’s controlled. Not junkie erratic.”
Dean swears low. “Is she injured?”
“Minor contusion at left cubital. No penetration, no chemical transfer that I could detect visually. She countered with a knee strike, and created separation. Subject exfil’d via side exit with disabled cam. Wire was cleanly cut. He knew the layout.”
“So we’ve got a planner who’s watched the site, maybe had access to volunteer logistics.” Another pause. “Chain-of-custody on the note?”
“Bagged. I’ll courier to lab via BRAVO courier at 0600. I also swabbed her sleeve and the cardstock edge; if he had residue—paint, oil, nitrile transfer—we might pull a trace.”
“Good.” A keyboard clacks. “Riggs staying on your flank?”
“Yeah. I want him embedded here. Also request mobile facial-rec kit for tomorrow’s vendor load-ins and a list comparison—anyone with access to Foundation volunteer rosters, Kingsley vendor databases, recent layoffs from Kingsley Aeronautics security. If this is leverage against Gregory through Cam, we tighten both ends.”
Dean exhales—approval salted with worry. “Done. How’s Cam mentally?”
